"Upon a Pot" by Cait Smith

*This poem is modeled after "The Haunted Beach" which is a
reaction to "Rime of the Ancient Mariner". So while I'm
modeling "The Haunted Beach", I am reacting to one of my
favorite poems, "The Pot of Basil" by John Keats.

"Upon a Pot" by Cait Smith

Upon the earth a love rang loud
Enough for all to hear,
Through breath and beat until a death
It shot out like a spear.
And while the story ever told
Could make a harsh man cry;
This story be but nev’r old
Proved worth is weight in gold
A harsh man compelled to buy.

Her name could chime the poet said,
Melodic to the heart,
Her passion more than fashion,
Her desire like an art.
While passion’s choice may hold so great,
Fate has its greater plans,
To cause a love to feel berate,
Or salvation be too late
Fate be greater than the man.

Two lovers set in darker times;
Her soul’s choosing chose beneath,
And He nev’r dream without a gleam
Keats wove their nightly weep.
Beautiful May had taught them well
That All could hold them back,
But every reason thrown in rebel,
Into heart’s abyss they fell,
Reason shattered, reason cracked.

Now enter pride to plot so grey,
The greatest beauty turning grim.
Two brother’s sought to wrought
What seemed to some as sin.
Why were they proud - no answer gave,
But fury compelled their worst,
For Her desire, to them enslaved,
And therefore they must save
A sister from His thirst.

A murder so profound would come,
On a scheming, dreary night.
Innocence had held Her spelled,
True motive not in Her sight.
So through the wood to reach a stream,
Two men had laid the plan,
Then with swift motion and no scream,
Moved blood into the earth like cream.
Now who’s sins seep into the land?

So slain was He and earth did cry,
But Selfish ruled Her kin.
A bloody love, their bloody gloves,
They looked at all but within.
No matter now of what they’d done,
The worm will gladly take this gift.
Not guilt, nor truth would leave their tongues
Unto a weeping sister the battle won
For now the story shifts.

For sister dear be not delayed
In finding through the trees,
Her destiny met tyranny
Under the blanket leaves.
And through His face relief had washed
Her desperation came to a sigh
Though recognition to others lost,
Her passion had waved grief’s cost.
Though empty was His eyes.

Harp’s music says that Love is pure
And She should cling unto Her hope
A kiss could not turn back the clock.
But something else did more than cope.
A pot would be Her vessel true
In bringing back the lost,
Though Fate cannot help Her undo,
What Fate had made into earth’s dew,
Instead Her gift’s like passion on a cross.

Her tears were made to make Him whole,
And wary beauty sought to come back.
For through decay repaired the fray
Gave light where once was black.
Bell and Her love were more than mates,
>From death they only knew to grow,
For Loves the everlasting great.
To turnaround the rules of Fate,
And demand of what was owed.




"The Haunted Beach" by Mary Robinson

Upon a lonely desert beach,
Where the white foam was scatter'd,
A little shed uprear'd its head,
Though lofty barks were shatter'd.
The sea-weeds gathering near the door,
A sombre path display'd;
And, all around, the deafening roar
Re-echoed on the chalky shore,
By the green billows made.

Above a jutting cliff was seen
Where sea-birds hover'd craving;
And all around the craggs were bound
With weeds–for ever waving.
And here and there, a cavern wide
lts shadowy jaws display'd;
And near the sands, at ebb of tide,
A shiver'd mast was seen to ride
Where the green billows stray'd.

And often, while the moaning wind
Stole o'er the summer ocean,
The moonlight scene was all serene,
The waters scarce in motion;
Then, while the smoothly slanting sand
The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade,
The fisherman beheld a band
Of spectres gliding hand in hand–
Where the green billows play'd.

And pale their faces were as snow,
And sullenly they wander'd;
And to the skies with hollow eyes
They look'd as though they ponder'd.
And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,
They dismal howlings made,
And while the blast blew strong and loud,
The clear moon mark'd the ghastly crowd,
Where the green billows play'd.

And then above the haunted hut
The curlews screaming hover'd;
And the low door, with furious roar,
The frothy breakers cover'd.
For in the fisherman's lone shed
A murder'd man was laid,
With ten wide gashes in his head,
And deep was made his sandy bed
Where the green billows play'd.

A shipwreck'd mariner was he,
Doom'd from his home to sever
Who swore to be through wind and sea
Firm and undaunted ever!
And when the wave resistless roll'd,
About his arm he made
A packet rich of Spanish gold,
And, like a British sailor bold,
Plung'd where the billows play'd.

The spectre band, his messmates brave,
Sunk in the yawning ocean,
While to the mast he lash'd him fast,
And braved the storm's commotion.
The winter moon upon the sand
A silvery carpet made,
And mark'd the sailor reach the land,
And mark'd his murderer wash his hand
Where the green billows play'd.

And since that hour the fisherman
Has toil'd and toil'd in vain;
For all the night the moony light
Gleams on the specter'd main!
And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,
The murderer's liquid way
Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb,
And flashing fires the sands illume,
Where the green billows play.

Full thirty years his task has been,
Day after day more weary;
For Heaven design'd his guilty mind
Should dwell on prospects dreary.
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
He has not power to stray;
But destined misery to sustain,
He wastes, in solitude and pain,
A loathsome life away.